Driving is a Sin
by aertemis
Summary: "They were sitting on the hood now, beers in hand, no stars in the sky. The night was dismal but Sam was ecstatic. He was electrifying. Sam was leaving." Short drabble/one shot; implied Wincest / rated T for language


**_Driving is a Sin; Wincest_**

When Dean Winchester first got the Impala, all he did was drive.

The highway line was his arena and Sammy was his audience so they would drive for hours on end when their dad was on a hunt, and sometimes, when the sun set and the lights went out, they would sit on the hood of the car and look at the stars in silence, pretending to be what they would never be able to have. For Sammy, it was obvious. He wanted a white picket fence and a wife, kids laughing in the backyard and a dog that bounded down the stairs every evening before dinner to greet him. Sammy wanted to be normal but you could tell that he still wanted to fight. Maybe not the evil that lurked every corner that wasn't decorated with salt and devils traps but he still wanted it and Dean knew that it was only a matter of time before Sam would go mundane and choose a suit and tie over a shotgun and Latin. Over his family. Over Dean.

Sam was easy, but for Dean, it was harder to tell.

He wasn't cut out to be anything other than a hunter, anything other than a killer. He was the balancing point before good and evil, between human and a demon. He was Dean goddamn Winchester. That's what John would tell him when he would go soft.

'Dean goddamn Winchester', 'Do your job, kid', 'Don't go soft on me now', or, 'Kill it now, boy.'

Never son, never Dean, not really. When John did say Dean's name it was through gritted teeth and empty bottles. Stitches in the dim bathroom and blood staining the walls. It was never out of endearment, only in default. Dean was as expendable as one demon to the next. He was a good hunter because that was how he was trained. He was a soldier cut out from a bed of grass and beaten until he was molded into a stone cold rock, he was a killer because that is how his father intended him to be. He wasn't good out of choice, only out of loyalty and fear. Only out of precautions and for the safety of Sammy.

They were sitting on the hood now, beers in hand, no stars in the sky. The night was dismal but Sam was ecstatic. He was electrifying.

Sam was leaving.

It was their last night together and it felt like the only one that counted but neither brother uttered a sound. It wasn't that they didn't enjoy each other's company or that they didn't care for each other.

It was the exact opposite.

Both held their breathing, as if they were hanging onto a thread of hope. They tried not to wince at their intertwining heartbeats.

Dean spoke.

"You can't leave, Sam." Sam, not Sammy. It was the first time in ages that Dean had called him that but the satisfaction ran past him, instead of through.

"Dean, we just went through this with Dad." He pleaded, "I have to get out of this."

Dean's eyes narrowed, "What about mom? What about the demon that killed her, huh, Sam? Doesn't she mean anything to you?"

He drew in a shaky breath, ignoring Dean. "Don't you get it? I have to get _out._ The life we live? It's a shithole and you and dad just barrel right into it, everyday, completley blind to the fact that what you're living isn't a life." Sam was standing now.

"No, Sam. You don't get it. We save people every day, we save lives and every step you take away from hunting? Another person suffers. Dad suffers, for fuck's sakes, _I suffer._ You know, when you were younger, dad would stay out all day and night hunting for that son of a bitch and I stayed out of choice. I stayed to teach you how to walk, how to talk, how to take a piss. I taught you how to pick up girls and how to dump 'em. I stayed for you, Sammy. I stayed, and you're leaving!"

Sam stayed silent, fists clenched.

"I would kill for you, man. Hell, God knows I've done it before and you're just walking out?" Dean was close to him now, hard breaths pouring onto his skin. He smelled like cherries and pain. "I would die for you."

"Dean-"

His head whipped to the side, "Don't you fucking dare."

Dean's words hung in the air like wet clothes on a hanger. They were heavy and nowhere near warm enough.

The drive home was filled with loud music but no matter how high the volume went, everything remained too still and too silent.

Over their years together, neither spoke of the future. Neither spoke of love. What they had wasn't love.

What they had was like being high for years and years, never overdosing and never blacking out. Just the shits and giggles, just the positivity blanketing the negative, smothering it until it died. They were the day after Christmas, when everyone would go out to buy new things with their new money and the anxiety that usually clouded the air would fade. They were the calm after the storm. They were heaven and nirvana and hell all in one.

Loving Sam was heaven.

Now Dean was in hell. One third of loving Sam Winchester. Two thirds away from falling apart.

Sam never got to drive the car. Not even when he got his license and John gave him the once-over, saying he was good to go. Not even when he begged, not even when he cried.

It was the only thing that Dean never gave him and the first time he told Sam no, it gutted him, throwing him in reverse.

Burying Dean was the hardest thing that Sam had ever done in his life and even when they carried his body into the backseat of the Impala, he forced Bobby to drive, avoiding the driver's seat like a plague.

Sammy could remember the first time Dean mentioned marriage because it was also the last.

"Marry, me, Sammy." Ring pop in hand, a saccharine smile.

"Shut up, Dean," Sam brushed him off, kicking his leg down, until he was kneeling, almost eye to eye with Dean.

He sounded so genuine and fake. It was utterly impossible for that to be in the same context but Dean made it sound real. Dean sounded like he wanted to marry him.

Then, he laughed.

Patting down the dirt, Sam closed his eyes, tears pricking his cheeks. His hair hung low on his face and he breathed in the air. If it was possible, the usual forest smelled less wild and plainer than it used to. It smelled a little less Dean.

He threw the shovel to the side, kicking over a bottle of whiskey onto the newly shoveled dirt and he hesitantly got into the front seat, careful not to ruin anything.

The inside of the car was an ocean now, salt upon broken hearts and gut wrenching gazes.

The windows were rolled down but no music was playing. _Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole._ Sam was still shotgun. Sam wasn't his brother.

"What do you want me to do, Dean?" The words spilled out of his mouth anguished, as if he was in unimaginable pain. He was, he was dying.

He drove.

 ** _This took me what, 5 minutes at 3 in the morning last night ? and it's a bag of shits b/c everything i write is crap but review and comment anyways please :')_**

 ** _Also, if you wanna contact me, I'm never on here so just talk to me on instagram; sammytops or galaxyboysam_**

 ** _\- Sam_**


End file.
